


Demarcation

by aishahiwatari



Series: Humanity [4]
Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Crying After Sex, Death Threats, Episode: s01e04 The Female of the Species, M/M, Missing Scene, Rimming, Rough Sex, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 21:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20216647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: “Holy fuck, you’re hot.” Hughie realises anew when he sees what’s underneath today’s ridiculous shirt, no artificially bulked muscle but a glorious, broad chest tapering down into a slim waist, a flat stomach, and he’d never realised he could have a thing for shoulders, but- “I’m gunna need you to ruin me, right now.”





	Demarcation

Hughie’s had a really rough day. Even by his recent standards. Somehow, being out with Annie, gorgeous and powerful and sweet as she is, feels more uplifting but also more draining than anything else, with all the lies he’s juggling. She makes him feel so much that he’s not ready to address yet. Sometimes he forgets, for just a moment, that he’s supposed to be grieving. It makes the guilt run deeper than ever.

And of course he’s hallucinating. He’s known he’s been slipping into the realm of mentally unstable for a while now, but to have it hit him like that when he thought he was in a safe space- it’s jarring.

So when he gets back and Butcher is there, Frenchie out and looking after some girl they’ve apparently picked up somewhere, Hughie all but collides with him, so unspeakably relieved to see him, to have someone he knows won’t judge him for this moment of weakness.

“Make it all go away,” he pleads, and Butcher wraps a hand around his throat and slams him up against a wall.

With anybody else, he might have worried it was a particularly violent refusal, but he can feel his pulse pounding against those strong fingers, the skin around his jaw burns with teeth marks, his feet barely touch the ground and his mind is blissfully silent. There’s a warm, immovable body pressed all along his front, one he clutches at helplessly, finding himself just tangled in fabric. He wants, more than ever, to feel hot skin against his own, tortured every day by Butcher’s disinclination to button his shirt properly.

There’s a rumbling laugh in his ear for his efforts, and a word Hughie doesn’t immediately understand, because surely not-

“Fucks sake.” That, he gets, Butcher taking hold of Hughie’s arms and draping them over his shoulders, before grabbing his ass with both hands. “Up.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Butcher is most emphatically not kidding, lifts him with a grunt and encourages Hughie’s legs around his waist like he’s nothing like six feet tall and carries him in the direction of a bedroom.

Hughie’s dumped on the bed with a screaming objection of mattress springs and some breathless laughter, sprawls there and then abruptly stops laughing because Butcher is wrestling with his coat, throwing it aside, revealing the strong arms beneath, all dark hair and corded muscle. Hughie just stares, and then he makes a strangled sound when Butcher begins to unbutton his shirt.

It earns him a smirk and then an expectant look, and fuck, yes, Hughie kicks his sneakers off and scrambles to rid himself of the rest of his clothes, and meanwhile Butcher watches, sure fingers just guiding another button through a hole with every item Hughie sheds. It’s deeply unfair, but also-

“Holy fuck, you’re hot.” Hughie realises anew when he sees what’s underneath today’s ridiculous shirt, no artificially bulked muscle but a glorious, broad chest tapering down into a slim waist, a flat stomach, and he’d never realised he could have a thing for shoulders, but- “I’m gunna need you to ruin me, right now.”

“Think you’re forgetting who’s in charge here,” Butcher chastises, but he crawls onto the bed, over Hughie, and he’s still wearing his jeans and the boots and fuck, this is so unfair. Hughie has so little to work with in comparison, but he knows enough to lift his arms above his head, cross his wrists and watch Butcher’s eyes darken.

They stare at each other, deep and intense, for a few moments, and then Butcher lowers his mouth to Hughie’s skin. He nips at his earlobe, trails his lips along the line of his jaw where it’s tender and sore, kisses the divot at the base of his throat, and then he makes Hughie squirm and mewl and clutch at him when he bites down hard on his collarbone. Fuck, it hurts, the skin there thin, his nerves screaming at him that it’s worse than it can possibly be.

Distractedly, Hughie maps the ridiculous expanse of warm skin to which he’s been miraculously allowed access, traces the lines of muscles with his fingers, smooths his palms over shoulder blades, gasps and claws with his nails when Butcher’s teeth scrape across his nipple. He’s never encouraged attention there, but it’s because he’s rendered awkward and embarrassed by his sensitivity rather than because he dislikes it. He should have known he wouldn’t be able to hide that for long, and Butcher is relentless but Hughie guesses that’s kind of what he asked him to do. He bites until Hughie isn’t sure he can stand it anymore, and then he laps with his tongue and sucks, so soft and wet Hughie feels like he’s going to break. He can’t fight it, doesn’t want to, attempts to wrap his hands around strong biceps, has to pant and arch and keen when -holy shit they’re actually kind of green- eyes meet his, impossibly dark and knowing.

He whimpers when it stops, too, when Butcher leaves both his nipples sore and hard and swollen, and presses a kiss to Hughie’s sternum. He drifts down from there, although he skirts around where Hughie so desperately wants his mouth, leaves him hard and leaking onto his belly while he lavishes attention on the sensitive insides of his thighs, sucking marks there, inflicting purpling bruises and reddened imprints of his teeth with a smug sort of satisfaction.

It’s torture. Hughie is aching, can’t stop thinking about that mouth, how it looked and felt to have his fingers lathed by a soft, wet tongue, is imagining his cock enclosed in that same heat, those pink lips stretched around him.

Instead, Butcher releases his leg, kneels up to look over his handiwork approvingly, heated gaze travelling over the marks left on his thighs, marks Hughie suddenly realises are brutally possessive, lingering on the curve of Hughie’s cock and the growing pool of pre-come on his belly, his reddened nipples. Then he gives Hughie a firm smack on the ass that makes him gasp, brings his focus back to the moment, and says, “Turn over.”

Hughie supports himself on shaking arms and legs as he does, wants to just collapse in a sprawl there but finds his hips held firmly in place even as his arms refuse to support him. He hugs a pillow instead, ass in the air, weight on his knees, is just beginning to consider feeling embarrassed by the position when Butcher murmurs, “You’re gorgeous, Hughie,” and sends warmth flooding through him. He’s really, really beginning to like how his name sounds in that voice, how it feels to be touched so firmly but gently, watched with that intense focus. And although his breath hitches when Butcher pulls his ass cheeks apart with his thumbs, he doesn’t squirm.

He does let out a noise entirely inhuman at the first slow swipe of Butcher’s tongue across his hole, though, bites down on the pillow to try and suppress it and fails horribly judging by the way Butcher stops to fucking laugh.

At least he doesn’t stop for long, dives back in with an indulgent moan of his own, like he’s the one being pleasured, like Hughie’s ass is a treat he’s been waiting to savour. His beard chafes lightly against Hughie’s skin, but his tongue is hot, slick and wet, persistent, and Hughie trembles with how fucking good it is. He sobs, attempts fruitlessly to drive back, to encourage more than the sweet, torturous laps against clustered and sensitive nerve endings, and Butcher’s fingers tighten on his hips so hard Hughie knows they’ll bruise.

It’s never been like this before. He can hardly fucking see, he’s so desperately turned on, and he has no idea what sounds are coming out of his mouth, knows only that he needs more, harder and deeper but at the same time he never wants it to stop.

“Fuck, I knew you’d be like this,” Butcher pants, before he spears his tongue to push it inside of Hughie, makes him wail with the sensations and the fact that he’s thought about this, he’s wanted this, wanted him. He thrusts in and out, lathing where Hughie knows the skin is smooth and pink, and when he tires of that he closes his lips around Hughie’s hole and sucks, back to lapping gently, opening him up, coaxing him to relax. Hughie has no idea if Butcher plans on fucking him and he doesn’t care, just shudders and pants and hopes his incoherent noises are enough to encourage more.

The first spit-slick finger slides in easily, Hughie’s hole puffy and sensitive, only becoming more so when Butcher holds him open, so he can get his tongue deeper. He rubs and licks around the whole ring of muscle, and he scrapes with his teeth any time Hughie’s moans lessen, both a warning and a promise. Hughie isn’t sure which one he prefers, whimpers when the wet warmth withdraws, but it’s only so Butcher can push two fingers in, scissoring them, stretching him out. His skin cools quickly where its wet, and Butcher’s beard is damp, too, when he presses his lips to the soft curve of Hughie’s ass.

Hughie can only imagine his eyes are on his progress, shudders at the thought, arousal sparking up his spine so sharply he has to groan to release it. It hurts, how much he wants to be filled, to have Butcher stretch him wide and fuck him until he comes. They’ve never done it on a bed, before, he realises abruptly, and they blazed right through that habit-forming third time without even blinking.

“You alright?” Butcher asks him, when the thought makes him tense in irrational panic, just for a moment.

Except it really is irrational, isn’t it? They’re having fun, together, and Hughie’s more turned on than he thinks he’s ever been in his life. “Want you to fuck me.”

“Thought you wanted me to ruin you.” He can hear the smirk in Butcher’s voice.

“You already did. Consider me ruined. Fuck,” Hughie pants, because his cock pulses and leaks just at the thought of where Butcher’s tongue has been, the reminder that he’s open and wet thanks to that dirty, wonderful mouth. “Please fuck me.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.” In a frankly blatant show of defiance, Butcher just leans in to trace his tongue around the edge of Hughie’s swollen, neglected hole, slow and deliberate, before he continues, “Now I know you can beg, I’m gunna want to hear it all the time.”

“If it worked, I’d do it more,” Hughie counters, and then he makes a keening, animal sound of loss when Butcher moves back, lifts his hands from Hughie’s hips, just kneels there, not touching him at all. “Fuck, I’m sorry, please fuck me.”

“Hmm. Better.” But Butcher’s lack of conviction is punctuated by the snap of a lube bottle opening, and Hughie’s hole twitches and clenches around nothing. “Once more. And I’ll think about it.”

Joke’s on him, Hughie is fucking shameless when he’s pushed. “Please. Please, fuck, I want your cock, please fuck me. Please, I’ll do anything-“

“I might just hold you to that.”

Butcher presses his cock inside in one long, deep, burning thrust. Hughie’s oversensitive and already shaking, has his ass dragged up and back to meet the second thrust of Butcher’s hips so their skin slaps together hard and the breath is driven from him in a gasp. It hurts, and it’s so good, and once he’s satisfied that Hughie isn’t resisting, Butcher pounds into him just like he’s needed for so long. Hughie isn’t sure whether he’s letting out one long groan or a series of short ones, but it feels fantastic, the build-up long and torturous and entirely worth the suffering to have the sweet, electric friction climbing higher with every second.

Butcher’s breathing is ragged too, like he’s close, brought there by burying his tongue and his fingers and his cock in Hughie’s ass. He’s not quite managing a rhythm, and Hughie manages to pant out, “Please touch me,” because if he attempts to do it himself he’ll be driven right up against the headboard, and if he doesn’t come like this he thinks he’ll die.

He doesn’t come like that. Butcher is so much stronger than him, pulls Hughie up by his hair until he can get an arm around his waist and sit him on his cock. He’s still kneeling, fuck he’s still mostly wearing his jeans, shoved down just far enough to let them get skin to skin, doesn’t have the leverage for the powerful thrusts of before but fuck, he gets deep. Hughie feels like he’s splitting in half, can only let his head drop back onto one of those ridiculous shoulders and pant while he tries to find his equilibrium again. His head spins, scalp still tingling pleasantly from the abuse and Butcher rolls his hips, holds him tight and then wraps a hand around his cock.

After the aggressive build-up, maybe it should feel like his climax is punched from him, but Hughie comes like cresting a wave, with a trembling sigh, long and slow, dragged out by Butcher muffling a groan in his neck and coming too, pulsing against his insides. Hughie pants and lets it happen, shivers through the aftershocks, raises a hand to brush fingers through Butcher’s hair and feels a kiss against his pulse point in response, Butcher nosing at his jaw with a last few hitches of his hips.

It’s all Hughie has in him. He goes mostly lax, is held up only by Butcher’s quick reactions, his strong arms and warm body, eased down onto his side so he doesn’t end up with come absolutely everywhere, Butcher still wrapped around him, hissing in discomfort as his softening cock slips free, their breathing slowing, almost in time with one another. It’s sweet, and it’s peaceful, probably the longest they’ve been allowed to revel in their afterglow with nothing to distract them.

And then Hughie bursts into tears.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hears Butcher mutter, feels the press of his forehead against the back of Hughie’s neck as though he’s just let it drop there, too weary to hold it up. “You don’t need me to fucking say anything, do you?”

“No,” Hughie sobs, laughing, maybe, or makes some approximation of that sound, and Butcher sighs like he’s just been asked for the Earth but he stays, one arm slung over Hughie’s waist, a comforting weight pressed against his back, the occasional flutter of eyelashes against his skin.

Of course he’s cried since everything, since losing Robin, but it all builds up, and he’s seen her today, real or not, staring at him like he’s done something terrible when he’s just trying to live, to go on without her, and it’s too much. He lets it out, to the soundtrack of slow, calm breathing, with someone who is willing to take him apart and wait while he puts himself back together again.

Eventually, the wracking sobs slow, and then they stop, and Hughie just sniffles, wipes his eyes, has been covered in so many bodily fluids in the past week that he almost wants to laugh. He’s losing his fucking mind.

But there’s something he has to do, first.

He sighs, low and tremulous, lets his hand rest over Butcher’s, feels him start as though he’s just been woken from a doze, and says, “What happens after? After A-Train? What if I want to leave?”

“Pretty sure the Seven would be out for your blood by then.” But Butcher’s tensed, his breathing coming faster. It sounds like his teeth are gritted. It’s much easier to do this without being able to see him. Hughie traces patterns on the back of his hand with a finger, makes him twitch.

“The Seven? Or you? I’ve seen your face. You’ve already threatened to break my legs. Would you kill me?”

“Course I would.”

Hughie guesses he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s why he asked, after all. He lets the knowledge settle, though, considers the peace, the escape, the simple pleasure of Butcher’s hand wrapping around his throat, just like he’s doing at that moment, anticipation shortening his breath. Maybe it’s easier for Butcher, too, not having to look at Hughie.

It certainly seems that way, when he says, voice low, breath warm against the nape of Hughie’s neck, “It wouldn’t hurt. You wouldn’t see it coming. Be quick and easy, better than any of them would offer you.”

Hughie’s spent a lot of time contemplating death, recently, and yes, he knows. That would be the best way. “I’d want it to be you,” he says, and he thinks he hears the soft hitching of breath but it’s not at the forefront of his mind when instinctively he’s urged to react to the tightening of that hand around his throat. He does react, just going limp, with a sigh, and Butcher says his name like a prayer.

“Hughie-“ he pauses, breathing ragged, his face pressed to Hughie’s hair. “Just stay. For fucks sake. Don’t make me do that.”

Sometimes it seems like Butcher is every relationship warning sign rolled into one. “I don’t want to,” Hughie says. He doesn’t know what else he can promise.

They stay there a while longer.

Before Butcher gets up, he brushes his thumb though the hair at the nape of Hughie’s neck as though to smooth it out of the way, presses the faintest ghost of a kiss there.


End file.
